


for rent

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Drug Addict Sherlock, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John Watson is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Prostitute Sherlock, Top John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:15:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27358615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock needs drugs, needs money. So he uses his transport, selling himself on the street. John Watson just needs a night off. They collide, but nothing is without consequence, and some things aren't what they seem.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 30





	for rent

John shivered in the pouring rain, wrapping his coat tight around himself, his umbrella doing a piss poor job of keeping him dry in the torrential down-pour. Just a few more blocks to his flat, fuck he should've got a taxi. This day couldn't get worse. 

This isn't a great neighborhood, going by the suspicious transaction involving unlabeled bags going down in the alley to his right, or the sprinkling of sex workers along the sidewalk, most of them with clear plastic umbrellas. He averted his eyes and keeps on walking, but his defenses are up. Taking on John Watson would be an idiotic mistake for anyone to make, but he's not going to assume they're intelligent these criminal types. He assumed wrong. 

"Need warming up, Captain?" He stopped and turned, a soft rumbling baritone shouting from his left. John gasped when he saw the prostitute. Gorgeous. Miles of pale flawless skin, black leather hot pants and a mesh crop top that left him practically naked. He had a black bag on his shoulder, and a black ribbon tied around his neck like a present. _Warm me up?_ John chuckled. Poor sod didn't have an inch of protection from the icy rain, his dark hair soaked in rivers down his forehead, his glittery makeup smudging. But it wasn't ugly, it should've been, but it wasn't. This boy looked, like a dark angel, cheekbones sharper than knives and lips that were sinfully wrapped around a cigarette that clung to life in the damp.

"Captain, eh?" John took in the picture, his pants tightening at the thoughts of those lips wrapped somewhere else. 

"Wasn't a- d-difficult leap," The boy shuddered, his body wracked with shivers as he tried his best to keep himself on display and not huddle too close in around himself. 

"Mate, you look freezing, take my umbrella," John offered it, knowing that it was kind of a mute point. He was already soaked. 

"I'm not out of your price range, sir," A pair of cat-like ice blue eyes met his, practically scarring their mark on his soul with their intensity and desperation. "30 pounds and a warm shower, and you can have- anything you'd like," John swallowed thickly at the idea of _anything_. He wanted _everything_. 

But this was wrong. This wasn't right. This kid couldn't be older than 16. But the emaciated skinniness left his age rather mysterious. 

"Are you-" John's throat caught, his errection now very uncomfortable in his trousers, and found himself now less than a foot away from the shivering child, the boy huddling under his brolly, looking up at him with those pleading, moonlit eyes. "How old are you?"

"Old enough for you, Captain," The boy whispered his ear, hands running along his shirt front. 

"Right. You know, this isn't- I don't ussually-"

"Oh I know, handsome, you're far too good-looking to _require_ my services, you could pull a nice pretty girl at the pub if you wanted," The boy's finger tips, icy and chilled, traced a circle right above his heart, where his scar was. How did he- "but how could you deny your Hippocratic oath, _Doctor_ , if a poor, cold little boy _needed_ to be filled to the brim, _needed_ you down his throat, needed a nice warm bed to sleep in." John groaned as one of Sherlock's skinny thighs pressed in between his own, rubbing against his raging hard-on, slowly moving up and down. Oh Christ, he's gonna hump me like a dog? Right here in the street? Extra points for eagerness he supposed. 

"Come on, let's go, my flat's just a few blocks away," John quickly wrapped an arm around his tiny waist, pulling him under his coat, his cold frame pressed to John's body. "What's your name, beautiful?" He whispered hotly in the shell of his ear with a little nibble. 

"Sherlock," He said softly.

"Mm, well Sherlock, I better not regret my purchase, hmm?" John growled and delighted to feel Sherlock shivering beneath the hand that rested on his sharp hipbone as he walked them through the rain. 

"You can have me any way you want, sir," Sherlock tucked one of his soaked curls behind an ear, and John resisted the urge to lick along that cheekbone and to taste the glitter and rainwater on his tongue. He tugged Sherlock by the hand up the front steps of his building, turning his key as Sherlock shivered and looked down, shaking intensely. Poor thing. This was such a bad idea, John thought absently. Sherlock was underage, a prostitue and likely crammed full of disease, likely to steal all his valuables and trash his flat. But there was something- 

something about Sherlock that he wanted with a burning spiritual need. Needed to taste him, to touch him, to make him his. If only for this once. 

John pushed open the door and led the way upstairs, Sherlock's platform boots making surprisingly soft and delicate steps behind him, and when they reached his flat, Sherlock's shivers had only increased, his fingers shaking violently, individual ringlets of curly dark hair trembling against his forehead as he looked down, hands clasped in front of him in a gesture of shyness. 

Shy? Now? Really? John smirked to himself as shrugged off his jacked and pulled the ice cold boy closer by his hips. He reached up and pulled open the black ribbon, unwrapping his present and suckling purpling marks down his neck, his honey-flavoured skin sweet and supple under his lips and teeth. Sherlock moaned, head thrown back and his hands resting on John's shoulders. John smelled so good, like earthy wood and strawberry jam, gunpowder and disinfectant. It was- overwhelming and Sherlock whimpered as the Doctor bit down harshly on his neck, a bruise sure to form there. 

"Ah-ah!" He gasped, and John wondered if this was an occupational trademark, or whether the boy was honestly so noisy and sensitive. Sherlock's fingers were shaking as they tried to tug at John's belt and John tutted, slapping him across the face. 

Sherlock stumbled back in shock, blinking and touching his stinging cheek. John's stomach burned with fire to see a reddening mark on those sinful cheekbones. 

"No. Shower first," He commanded, stepping and opening the bathroom door. "Clothes," John held out an open hand and Sherlock nibbled on his bottom lip, eyes wide and hesitant before he slowly knelt down to unzip his boots. Then came the tiny fishnet crop top, leaving his twin sweet pink nipples on display, and John licked his lips hungrily. Like a predator stalking his prey. Sherlock shakily stripped of his shorts, no pants, folding his skimpy clothes in a pile and handing them to John. He nervously looked up at the older, silvery blonde man. 

"Clean everywhere" John spoke sternly and Sherlock's cheeks coloured. A blushing whore. Sherlock was nothing if not a contradiction. 

"Yes, sir, I understand." Sherlock quickly went into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. God, John let out his breath once the boy had left, leaning forward on his knees. Disgusted with himself for this horrific act he was about to commit. What untold horrors Sherlock had already been exposed to, but he was yet so young and bright and innocent. John wanted to _destroy_ him, in that horrific carnal need, to mark and ruin and break. 

Horrible. He was horrible. A horrible, horrible disgusting middle aged pervert about to fuck a child. Disgusting. He wiped his hands on his trouser legs, his muscles tense as he walked to the kitchen to pour himself something. He needed to loosen up. 

Sherlock sighed, his chest tight and his heart racing as he stared at his reflection. His mascara was smeary around his eyelids, his glittery highlighter dripping and faded in spots, dark red teeth dramatically contrasted with his vampire-pale neck. He blinked and watched his shoulders twitch, his muscles flinching with _need._ Searching through his black bag until he found the last of his stash. A tiny white bag. He didn't have time to shoot up, so he quickly improvised a line on John's bathroom counter. He straightened it with the edges of the bag, quickly inhaling it. Christ. He never did get over the _burn_. It hurt like hell, but the wave of euphoria that followed was so so worth it. Worth _this_. 

He'd never, done this before. But he knew he looked the part. He'd stolen the look from a sex shop in a shadier part of town, borrowed the makeup from a _colleague_ on his same street. 

He shook out his hair like a wet dog and hopped in John's shower, had a bit of trouble figuring how to get it turn on, but when it did, he turned it to scalding hot, his skin burning under the harsh spray. He scrubbed at his skin, swallowing as he used John's soap, it smelled _dark and warm and_ \- stop it Sherlock. It's transport. 

He coldly and clinically bent over, the spray hitting at his bum. He reached back with embarrassed red cheeks and scrubbed between his cheeks, down his thighs, his scrotum and his thighs, leaning forward and letting the practically boiling water rinse through all his most delicate places. It hurt. But he wanted this to go through. He needed the money. He needed more cocaine. What would Mycroft think. Mycroft hadn't found him yet, no doubt he didn't really care. Nobody did. Sherlock was street trash now. His virginity was all he had left, but now his dire straights had taken that from him as well. Or- John would it seemed. The thought was not unpleasant. John was- handsome, strong, just his type. Military too. He was hard to resist. 

John would probably know what he was doing- openly bisexual, he's done this before. Hopefully he wouldn't be too rough. But he would. Because he saw Sherlock as trash. This is just a transaction, Sherlock don't be stupid. Sherlock nervously turned off the shower and stepped out, feeling nothing but shame and fear and anxiety. 


End file.
